


for my own share

by lost_decade



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: M/M, Nostalgia, Post-Coital Cuddling, Rimming, post-mexico city, this is mostly just porn tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:36:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22910836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_decade/pseuds/lost_decade
Summary: They haven't touched each other since James got serious with Tess. Part of André wants to torture himself with the possibility of James turning him down, something dark and twisted within him yearning to create another wound to scratch at in order to distract himself from today.Another part simply needs the comfort he knows is not currently available elsewhere, and is willing to take the chance
Relationships: André Lotterer/James Rossiter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	for my own share

**Author's Note:**

> Title from New York by Ex:Re
> 
> Erm, so it's been a while but I guess Mexico inspired me.

James is with Antonio, which André finds himself inexplicably pissed off about from the moment he sees them laughing and joking in the hotel lobby at the end of the night.  


They haven't seen each other all weekend, him and James, not since New Year's actually, haven't spoken at all aside from the texts exchanged about his brother. It makes André feel guilty but he doesn't particularly want to have a standard catch up right now, to hear the  _ sorry about your race _ he's just had to grittingly smile through over dinner with his family.  


Instead he sits a little taller on the bar stool, hooking the heels of his brogues over the metal bar halfway down the chair and resting his chin against his hand, glancing over his shoulder and allowing himself to indulge in just looking at his friend, dragging his gaze the length of James' body, catching his eye and staring, allowing his lips to part slightly. His fingers find a patch of exposed skin where the top buttons of his shirt are undone, just resting there lightly. An old seduction back from in Japan, employed so many times across the length of a room at parties in the old days. James had so often abandoned his attempts at picking up women at that look, a silent invitation promising something easy on the occasions when the comfort of the familiar won out over the need to impress and seduce.  


They haven't touched each other since James got serious with Tess. Part of André wants to torture himself with the possibility of James turning him down, something dark and twisted within him yearning to create another wound to scratch at in order to distract himself from today. Another part simply needs the comfort he knows is not currently available elsewhere, and is willing to take the chance. He'd seen Jev briefly during post-race media duties, sullen and moody over whatever happened in his own race that André definitely didn't have the energy or patience to want to hear about. Leave it to Carl, he thinks. Maybe that's selfish, given what he has with Jev, but he can't bring himself to want to get involved today.

He watches as James says his goodnight to Tonio, draining the dregs of his cocktail and signalling to the barman to charge it to his room, before walking over to the elevators in patient wait, the lights blinking intermittently through the floors. When James finally walks over and hugs him it feels like clinging on for life, the scent of his skin when André noses at his neck is like deja vu for the senses. 

"Sorry bro," James says, his arms still around André's back, holding him close in an embrace that makes André shiver at the renewed realisation of how strong James is. André feels strung out, jet-lag wearying his limbs and making him long to not have to think just for a few hours, to sink bonelessly into the bed in his hotel suite and let everything except the physical slip away. It's testament to their friendship that he can tell James is aware of this without him having to say a word.  
  


There's some mezcal in the minibar and a text from Takako on André's phone when he checks it back in the hotel room. A crying face emoji in relation to the race and a line to say she's moved the rest of her stuff out of the house, that she's landed safely back in Japan. He misses her friendship, doesn't want to examine that the changes to it have all occurred since it shifted into a monetary arrangement. Will they go back to normal now she's gone, he wonders. Or was their normal just a reality confined to the past?

James grabs them both a refill, slouching onto the sofa at André's side and slinging an arm around him, combing his fingers through André's hair soothingly. It feels good to be touched, to be able to hold someone's full attention and not have to worry about what any of it means. He wishes sometimes it could be like that with Jev, but there are too many feelings there for it to ever be simple. It's straightforward with James, but he still has to ask if Tess would mind, hearing an answer he doesn't want in James' pause even as he replies in the negative a moment later. Even if she does mind, James doesn't make any move to go anywhere other than to the floor, sinking down onto his knees between André's parted thighs and the coffee table, nuzzling his face against André's jeans-covered dick. He's glad for the lack of preamble, one of the things he's always kind of attributed to James' Britishness, fucking without fucking around, always sort of blokeish in moments like these, in a way that André knows he isn't with Tess.

"You're a good friend, man," André says softly, fingers tracing over James's stubble, aware he doesn't say it enough. He thinks for a second James is going to make a joke, tell him off for his sentimentality, but instead he just raises his head and stretches for a kiss that André meets him halfway for, their tongues sliding together, warm and familiar.  


Between their bodies, André undoes the buttons on his jeans, slipping a hand inside his underwear to stroke himself. 

"I want you to fuck me," he says when they break the kiss, foreheads pressed together as they chase some air. It's never been their regular routine, he holds his breath for a second, expecting an excuse that doesn't come. James nods instead, glancing down between them and grasping André's wrist, leading him through into the bedroom, past the floor to ceiling windows with their view out across the glittering lights of the city.  


"I could call Jev, too, if you want?" James suggests as he unties his shoelaces sitting on the end of the bed, almost as if Jean-Éric might disapprove of André having sex without him. More likely because James still feels conflicted regarding the nuances of what sex with André might mean about himself. They'd talked about it once or twice years back, drunk on Nikka halfway around the world. It makes a difference to James, André knows, getting each other off with hands and mouths a whole different meaning to actual fucking. Sometimes he'd told himself it was because James was worried they'd fall in love if he let André inside his body. Most of the time he saw it for the reality of James not being entirely comfortable with the connotations he could more easily dismiss as nothing but homesick fooling around if it was just another handjob.

"Jev wouldn't give me what I need," André tells him, leaning in for another kiss as he slips off his shirt and jeans, placing them on one half of his open suitcase and rummaging in one of the pockets for a strip of condoms and some lube. It's true, it's always been him fucking Jev, not the other way around, and André couldn't take Jean-Éric's need for reasurrance right now; he knows that's how it would be and he doesn't want to have to be coaxing him through it, praising him for hitting the right spots.  


He doesn't want to have to think at all.  


"You know, I've never really been sure why you think  _ I _ can," James says, not unkindly, turning to look at him.  


"You're my friend and I trust you," André tells him honestly. "We don't want anything from each other. And anyway, you're a good fuck and so am I."  


James laughs, the mild tension between them slipping away. André moves to stand between James’ parted thighs, sighing softly when James reaches up to slide a hand across his chest, playing his nipples hard as he kisses over André’s stomach, nuzzling at the waistband of his underwear. Part of André wants to have James fuck his mouth like this, bury his fingers in James’ hair and use him for the easy pleasure of a quick orgasm. The exhaustion of race day is like a rope around his shoulders dragging him down though, adrenaline peaked and filtered away. He knows if he lets James suck him off it’ll be too much of an ask to get it up again so soon, and he wants to come with James’ dick buried in his ass, wants to feel sore and used and for his headspace to not be stuck at turn one.  


James’ hands slide lower, mouthing at the head of André’s dick, straining against his waistband, taking a deep inhale of the scent of him there and making André flush with shame. It's crazy but he knows that part of what makes it so special with James is the knowledge he doesn't do this with anyone else; he can't quite contemplate the mix of jealousy and arousal at the thought of Jev drawing him into something like this at Techeetah without André's involvement. He knows James wouldn't, not without checking with André first, but his mind drifts back to James' suggestion of calling Jev. He can't quite decide if he'd want the two of them at the same time, a flash of possession over Jev making his cock grow harder, the soft material of his underwear growing damp and sticky at the thought of maybe showing him off to James, tying him up and taking pictures, letting James do whatever he wants.

It's a thought to contemplate another day, flying from his head when James rids him of his boxer briefs and bends to suck on the head of his dick without preamble, making his hips buck forward and shivers tremble down his spine.

"On the bed," James instructs, his lips shiny with André's precome. He doesn't quite meet André's eyes and the slight hint of shyness that André can always detect in these encounters makes him as turned on as it piques his annoyance. He shouldn't have to tell James it's okay to want this, not after so many years. The words are on the tip of his tongue nonetheless, but tonight isn't really about James so he pushes the thought away and kisses him instead, slow and deep, loving, before settling on the bed on his hands and knees. He doesn't want the romance of a face-to-face fuck, the vulnerability in his eyes at the point of orgasm is something too personal to give away right now, even as he trusts James with his life.  


He settles on his forearms, face resting on the plush down of the ludicrous amount of pillows that housekeeping have meticulously put back in place from where he'd tossed them onto the chair last night, wishing he could start the day over again. Fuck he needs to stop thinking. It seems a possible prospect when the sensation of James' stubble grazing the backs of his thighs makes him jolt, whimpering into the sheets. James' hands are calloused against his arsecheeks as he parts them, the soft swipe of his tongue over André's arsehole enough to make him moan. It's something he loves and hates in equal measure, this, happy to spend an hour taking Jean-Éric apart this way but unable to refrain from squirming away from the intimacy when he’s the one receiving it. He takes a shaky breath, his mind still caught on the crushing dismay of the millisecond he realised his race was over, that all efforts were futile, the track before him obscured by plumes of smoke as the car died beneath him. It’s not enough and he wants to push James, make him get on with it even if his body isn’t ready.  


“Steady, Dré,” James’ breath hot against his damp skin, followed by the sharp drag of the stubble on his chin against André’s sensitive hole, enough to make him cry out and press back against James’ face, chasing the roughness. The angle he’s at means his cock drags against the sheets, the thread of the embroidered duvet cover providing delicious friction that he wants to mindlessly grind down into, and would if it wasn’t for James’ hands holding him in place, making him squirm as he spits and licks obscenely at him, teasing with his tongue as André tries desperately to clench, frustrated with the need to be filled up.  


“You’re amazing like this,” James murmurs breathlessly. A cool, slick finger presses into him all the way to the knuckle, the drag and burn satisfying but a reminder of how long it’s been, how unused to this he is. James’ touch is reverent and André is getting frustrated, cursing into the silence of the hotel room.  


“I never imagined…” James starts, whatever he was going to say lost as André whines at the inclusion of another finger, curling and pressing against his prostate. He can feel his dick leaking onto the sheets more with every stroke of James’ fingers, driving him insane with the need for relief. It feels like an eternity before James’ cock pushes inside him, pitching him awkwardly forward, the aching fullness as perfect as he remembers. He tries to shuffle a bit more upright, reaching out to grab onto the headboard with one hand while the other snakes beneath him to wrap around his cock.   


There’s something so primal about being used this way, stretched and filled relentlessly. James fucks like the typical macho straight guy that André has fooled people into thinking he himself is, exuding the kind of radiant testosterone that gets him models like Tess. His sweet words of endearment whispered against the sweaty skin of André’s back are interspersed with the kind of filth that makes André shiver at their implications, makes him want to beg and plead, to protest that he’s not a slut even as that’s all he wants to be in that moment.  


He can feel every inch of James, hot and hard inside him, hitting all the right spots, and writhes to change the angle slightly when the unrelenting drag of James’ cock against his prostate threatens to make him lose it before he’s ready.  


“Get yourself off for me,” James grunts, gripping André’s hips and preventing him from squirming away, “want to feel it.”  


James reaches around to stroke André’s slick, leaking cock, rubbing his thumb over the slit demonstrably and making André cry out, shaking, knuckles white against the headboard. He wants the pleasure of orgasm, so so close, but part of him feels he doesn’t deserve it; shouldn’t he be allowed to have this and have points as well, wins and podiums and champagne kisses, the pride of the team.  


“C’mon, André,” James urges, pulling him back into the room and away from the turmoil of his thoughts. He arches over André’s back, biting at his neck just the way he likes, reaching to tug at one of André’s wrists where he’s holding onto the headboard and guiding André’s hand down to his cock.  


There’s a moment, a brief sway threatening to disrupt their rhythm, before the athleticism of their bodies anchors them. André gasps, crying out in pleasure as he jerks his cock, so wet and hot in his grasp. He feels his balls tighten, his whole body strung like a bow as he succumbs to the white hot pleasure of orgasm, spilling over his hand and onto the sheets as he slumps forward, his ass spasming around James’ dick with every thrust against his sensitised prostate. James curses, pulling out and rolling André onto his back on the dry side of the bed, snapping off the condom and straddling André’s thighs, looking down at him with an awed expression that André is still too blissed out to be self-conscious about.  


He bites his lip as he watches James get himself off with rapid strokes, painting André’s stomach white, panting as he leans forward to rest their foreheads together, kissing André tenderly. They rest there like that for a few moments, James holding his weight above André, the muscles in his arms flexing, before he climbs off the bed and picks up the discarded condom and throws it into the trash.  


André watches him, fingers swirling through the cooling spunk on his stomach and then bringing them to his mouth to suck them clean.  


James has never been one for cuddles, not in the way André suspects he is with women. Fuck, it’s not like he needs to be reassured anyway, he has Jev to hold through the lonely nights when everything gets a bit too much. He feels sated, lighter than he’s felt all day since qualy, calmer than even Helmut’s steady hands on his muscles can ever make him.  


He nods when James asks to use the shower, listening to the noise of the shower being switched on before James re-emerges seconds later with a damp flannel and a fucked-out smile on his face, sitting down on the side of the bed and cleaning away the sticky remnants of semen on André’s stomach. 

“Join me?” James asks, his fingers tracing the inside of André’s thigh.  


André shakes his head, too content to move. He likes the scent of sex on his skin, the stickiness of the lube around his hole and the pleasant soreness that goes along with it.  


“Come back to bed?” He gives James his best puppy eyes, rolling over and getting under the covers. "Be dirty with me," he drawls campily, throwing in a suggestive wink for good measure. He doesn't get his hands on James anywhere near enough, damn it. It's not really neediness, wanting to be held.

“Fuck it, okay. I’ve got an early flight so just for a bit though, yeah,” James gives in, taking a moment to turn the shower off before slipping into the huge bed and pulling André close to him, the two of them arranging themselves so that André’s head is resting on James’ chest. The steadiness of his heartbeat anchors André in the moment, safe and content as James wraps an arm around him, pressing soft kisses to his hair.  


It feels like five years ago, the days when they shared a flat and would so often end up in each other’s bed, kissing and fucking, falling asleep together like this. Was it a relationship? André has never thought of it in those terms but maybe it was in some weird way, the two of them struggling to belong in a city that in so many ways still felt alien, the language a mystery despite the years there already ticking by. Was it inevitable they’d build a home at the end of the world, a bachelor pad on the surface but something deeper beneath? He wouldn’t have been ready at the time, and James probably never. Even so, André can still recall the look on James’s face when he first mentioned going back to Europe, the moodiness that had followed.  


“You heading home tomorrow?” James asks, interrupting his thoughts. Probably just as well.  


“Monday morning. Lunch with Jev’s family tomorrow.” God, surely he shouldn't be stressed about it, about what it might mean.

“Getting to know the in-laws?” James teases, his chest shaking a little with laughter beneath André's cheek.  


_ It's just fucking lunch.  _ “Something like that,” André replies. He shouldn't start reading too much into things when he's not even fully sure what they are, or what he wants them to be.  


“It’s weird isn’t it,” James says contemplatively, his fingers stilling their soothing motion against André's scalp. “You and Jev, Tess…”  


André hums in agreement, turning his head awkwardly and looking up at James for a kiss, an almost platonic brush of lips, at odds with the raw desperation of their fucking. He can feel his eyes growing heavy, the day turning over as the lights on the bedside clock tick over to Sunday. His body tingles with the remnants of pleasure from his orgasm, his mind finally calmer after the circus of race day.

It isn't so much Japan that he misses, André realises with a strange dreamlike clarity a few hours later, only half aware of James moving around the room as he dresses, it's more a moment in time.  


**Author's Note:**

> The 'home at the end of the world' line is a reference to the novel of the same name by Michael Cunningham (Read it, it's awesome!)


End file.
